These Dark Wings Read online

  She stumbles in, cuts off the doorway. Why? Why is she standing in the doorway? We are two robbers, killers as far as she knows. Move.

  She doesn’t. She is a rock, cutting off our escape.

  No, she is inching closer, approaching us.

  Timothy Squire is making a sign at me, but I’m not looking at him. I see now, on the table amid the dust, a coloured photograph in a silver frame. The woman, in the back, with her husband and two young children. The woman’s hair is long, much longer than it is now, and though she is not smiling you can feel her happiness.

  Timothy Squire whispers, a harsh sound – ‘Magpie’ – and I finally turn.

  The woman is close now, broomstick raised, threatening. And then it happens. In Timothy Squire’s hands, shining in the light.

  My knife.

  The dusk light is impossibly bright. Timothy Squire is still pale, casting backwards glances as we run. After we are well free of the neighbourhood, I gesture for him to stop.

  ‘You all right?’ he pants.

  I time it perfectly, and my fist connects, hard, with his stomach. He stumbles, falls to his knees on the wet pavement. Although his grip is strong I have taken him by surprise, and soon the knife is in my hands.

  ‘Are you mad?’ he cries out, a hand clutching his gut as he rises to his feet. ‘You could’ve sliced your hand off—’

  ‘I’ll slice off yours if you ever steal from me again,’ I gasp for air, putting the knife in my bag. ‘Don’t steal from people – from homes—’

  ‘There’s nobody in them!’ he says, the pain clear in his face. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘That only makes it worse.’

  We walk on. My face burns. There was someone inside that house. Has he forgotten that already? Is he really that stupid? He threatened a woman with a knife in her own home so that we could run away.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ I say.

  I sense his anger, but he says nothing.

  ‘And you’re horrible for doing it. How did you get my knife? Don’t ever go into my room.’

  I think of the diary under the bed. The things I’ve written, about Mum, about how scared I am – the things I’ve written about him.

  ‘It was in case – in case something like that happened,’ he is still holding his gut. ‘You said your uncle got you one, so I – bloody hell, Anna. That hurt.’

  ‘You expected to run into people?’

  ‘So you want to just starve, waiting for the Germans to come—’

  ‘You are a coward, Timothy Squire. You hide in your comic-book world and collect bombs and make up stories like it’s all a game – and now that you can’t hide any more, you go mad, and steal from people and threaten them with knives! You only care about yourself.’

  Timothy Squire has a wild look in his eyes. ‘What about you? You want to run away but you’re too scared. You think Oakes is a spy and you do nothing because you’re frightened. You don’t care about anyone either.’

  ‘You have your mum and dad, and all the stupid NAAFI girls. I have no one. Who should I care about? You?’

  He looks at me, looks down. ‘Stop whinging. You have your uncle, who cares about you enough to make up a whole legend just to keep you happy. All that stuff about the ravens just to make you think you’re helping – that you can help. We all do what we have to.’

  ‘Is that why you killed Raven MacDonald?’

  ‘I didn’t kill your stupid bird.’

  ‘MacDonald was so much smarter than you. You are a dirty liar.’

  We are not looking at each other now, but staring at the street ahead. All I can picture is MacDonald when I found him. His head cut off by a knife. Dumped in the ditch like rubbish. I say the next words, slowly, calmly.

  ‘You should not have come to the shelter that night. I wish you never had.’

  As we walk I feel his pace slowing, falling out of step. Looking forward, I keep walking, step after step, through the thickening snow.

  Finally, reaching a corner where I can quickly glance back, I see that he is not there. Without thinking, I stop and turn, looking down the street, into the dusk.

  He is gone.

  10

  Tuesday, 24 December 1940

  ‘It’s nothing, you know,’ says Yeoman Cecil over breakfast. ‘This rationing. You should have seen us in the Depression. Half starved, everyone was, in the Hungry Thirties. You practically needed to steal in order to survive. We all pinched a bit of food back then.’

  Even though I feel that the words are meant for me, of course they are not. No one would excuse Timothy Squire’s looting.

  Despite his grumbling, Yeoman Cecil is in an excellent mood. He received a message that his son is safe in a PoW camp. ‘The Christmas miracle,’ he calls it.

  We have just listened to the ration-book cooking tips that follow the 8 a.m. news. Today they gave Christmas recipes. Although no truce has been brokered – no football match on the Western Front, no laying down of arms – one seems to be implied. Even Nell was nice to me and wished me a ‘Happy Christmas’ before the school break.

  But I was not ready for Mr Brodie’s announcement. ‘Well, you’ve been down there once already, haven’t you?’

  I nod yes.

  ‘And you know the way?’ Brodie asks.

  It’s not that I can’t find it again. Of course I can.

  ‘What? You can get food for birds but not birds for food?’

  It’s not that either. It’s the company.

  ‘Then it’s settled. You and Nell head down and pick up the nicest goose you can get your hands on. The boys have already brought back as many chickens as they could carry. Get our goose and we’re all set.’

  So here I am walking through the snowy streets of London with Nell.

  ‘What do you think?’ she says, after many quiet minutes.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A haircut. You fancy one?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘No, not now, girl. Now we got food to collect. After the holidays, say. I’ll take you down to St Katharine Docks myself.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say after a moment. ‘OK. Thank you.’

  In the winter dark, growers and traders sell their goods by small oil lamps. Nobody really seems to notice how beautiful Nell is. We get the goose quickly enough and dash back through the cold. I still feel a bit second hand around her, but now we are nearly friends.

  Flo would be so jealous. I keep thinking about my new haircut. All the girls wear their hair in curls now. Can I wear mine in curls? I would give anything to have hair like that. Like Mum’s.

  A man in an overcoat stands outside the twin-towered West Gate.

  He is not the German, I can tell that straight away. I like the sight of him only slightly more.

  He turns at our footsteps, fingers itching towards his camera.

  ‘Hiya, girls,’ he calls. ‘Happy Christmas to you both. You two live in the Tower, do you?’

  Neither of us answers, and I follow as Nell walks on.

  ‘Just a quick question, nothing to be alarmed about.’ He moves to stand before us. ‘About the other residents of the Tower. I’m with the paper, you see? The people want to know how the ravens are doing. You know, all this business about some old Tower legend. Folks want to know if the birds are fit and healthy and all.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, hoisting the giant goose as we pass. ‘Just bringing them their Christmas meal now.’

  The Watchman senses some disturbance and steps out of the Gatehouse. The photographer slinks away. But I am smiling. Uncle Henry didn’t make up the legend of the ravens. Even the newspapers know about it. I ignore the voice in the back of my head that whispers, you told Churchill. Timothy Squire is the rotten liar, not Uncle.

  At dinner, the table is covered in a cloth embroidered with red flowers. We have goose and roast potatoes, with cabbage from the allotment. The Stone Kitchen looks positively festive, with paper chains and sprigs of holly decorating the ceiling (no paper hats, though). For p
udding, we are each given half a fig. Nuts are still scarce and dear, so we don’t have those.

  We open presents before the fire. My pillowcase is here in place of a stocking, and there is something inside – it is heavy. Has someone gone to Oxford Street? Uncle has given me a book (The Sword in the Stone), which I have read a million times. I smile and thank him.

  From Oakes there is a card. It is only a card – no present – but with a quite lovely decoration of a robin on it. Inside it says A Happy Christmas. I mutter my thanks.

  We sit listening to the wireless, carols from a college chapel (exact location censored – likely Cambridge). ‘Star of Bethlehem’ plays with Brodie’s deep hum as accompaniment.

  Back in my room, I write a card to Florence. I wish I could send it; I wish I knew where exactly she was.

  A knock.

  ‘Come in.’ Strange for Uncle to visit at so late an hour. I wait another moment before calling in a louder voice.

  ‘Come in!’

  No one comes.

  Quietly, I get up and push the door open. Nobody is there. But something is. Even though it is not wrapped, I know it is a present. A bit too small, the pages not lined; it is perfect.

  A new workbook, with the name already filled in, in small, neat letters. Magpie.

  A note inside.

  I bought this for you – sod the paper ration.

  I’m sorry. T.S.

  Wednesday, 25 December 1940

  The parade is at 9.50 a.m. outside the King’s House. Again the Warders are in full red and gold dress, with their medals and ribbons proudly displayed. Sir Claud carries a staff with an enormous head, and Sparks, the Gaoler, carries an axe.

  I think of Mum, and when we saw the Coronation together. Well, the Coronation parade, at any rate. Mum took me to see all the royals pass along Regent’s Street. Three summers ago, though it feels like ten.

  They even filmed it, and broadcast it all over. People covering the sidewalks and hanging out of the windows, cheering as the lines of soldiers and horses passed – the glittering uniforms and plumes, the wailing trumpets and bugles, the screeching pipes and drums – all leading the royal buggy on its way down Oxford Street, into Hyde Park, and to the palace.

  Mum gripped my hand, told me who was who – the Canadian mounted police, the Colonials, the royal princesses – and she cheered loudly with everyone else. I remember her cheering anyway, even if I can’t quite picture it now. She always liked the Duke of York, and was happy that he was going to be King.

  Staring at Uncle, the parade of the past in my thoughts, the words just come.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ I am saying. ‘I just... don’t. I’m sure I saw her, I always saw her before I left for school. She would make porridge, on the mornings she didn’t have to go in early. Other days she walked me right to the bus stop, waving as I pulled away.’

  I stop, look down at the dark stone.

  ‘I don’t remember that morning. If she was there, in the doorway, or at the bus stop, or already gone...’

  Uncle leans forward, places a hand on my arm. The Warders march on, and we watch in silence.

  Timothy Squire is there. His eyes, freed from the irritating brick dust, are not grey but a surprising blue. He keeps up his smile.

  ‘Thank you for the gift,’ I say, before turning back to the parade.

  At Chapel the choir is smaller now, yet the voices seem louder. It is a short sermon: we must pray for peace, but peace is impossible until there is goodwill between men. I try to listen, to believe it, my eyes on the tall Christmas tree in the corner.

  At home, our tree was always left up until New Year’s Day, when Mum and I put it outside. All day the street would be lined with trees, still green while the real street trees were dead and empty of leaves for the winter. Even after the truck came to collect them, little needles littered the drive, shards of green in the white snow.

  I stare around at the flagstone graves and memorials that fill the cold, white room. Buried underneath are Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, Lady Jane Grey, Sir Thomas More. ‘Residents are baptized, married and buried at the Chapel,’ the Chaplain once said.

  Will I be buried here?

  The sermon is over, and the choir sings again. I look back up at the stained-glass windows, thinking of the horrors of the slow-passing year.

  Oh, God. Don’t let me be that frightened ever again.

  We were promised it would happen, yet to hear it now is astonishing. Church bells ring throughout the city. An incredible sound – the signal of death now the signal of hope. As the voices rise in ‘When Shepherds Watched’, tears fall from every eye.

  I walk through the snow-dusted Green.

  Grip careens into view, intent on his own business. Mabel, at least, would visit. She would examine you, nod in greeting, before moving on. I can still see him, though, and, wet from the earlier snowfall, I can detect the strong, almost fragrant smell of wet feathers, and it feels like I am sharing some of Christmas with Grip. I added some of my goose to his feeding (a bigger than palm-size slice) and he devoured it with obvious pleasure.

  It is my duty to protect them. To protect us.

  Always there have been ravens at the Tower.

  We too are like the ravens. Maybe Timothy Squire isn’t so wrong. We have become animals in order to survive: animals and thieves.

  The houses were empty. Who are we leaving the food for? Rats?

  I am so mad at him. I can scarcely think of that giant head without wanting to throw something at it. He doesn’t understand anything. He doesn’t see. How horrible it is.

  To have another thing to lose.

  ‘Hear that?’ Uncle says, pointing at the wireless. ‘The bells of the Coventry Cathedral. What remains of it.’

  Christmas Day lunch was happy. Chips, beans, mince pie, a glass of port. I could have asked for nothing better. Osborne biscuits too.

  Last Christmas, I went to the pantomime with Mum. Different from the other years, when Mrs Morgan came too. Rumour is that only one pantomime is showing in the West End – Aladdin – and the show times are strange – 12 noon and 4 p.m – in case the raids begin again.

  We, of course, are staying in the Tower. An afternoon programme called Christmas Under Fire is on, and, along with the bells of Coventry Cathedral, there are interviews from troops in Iceland, Egypt, Bethlehem. Civilians in the country, in shelters, in the Underground, sing ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Then, of course, the King himself speaks. For days Uncle has been readying us for this moment, his excitement almost enough to make him seem healthy again.

  The radio voice, if occasionally halting, is clear enough:

  Remember this: if war brings separation, it brings new unity also, a unity which comes from common perils and common sufferings, willingly shared. To be comrades and good neighbours in trouble is one of the finest opportunities of the civilian population.

  It all happens like a kind of dream.

  Another lovely dinner (though there are never onions any more), with Christmas pudding and mince pies. It is just nice to be almost warm inside, away from the dark windows and frost. To forget about bombers hunting the skies. Someone has even found a red tablecloth.

  Uncle stands, and we all raise a glass.

  ‘To our friends and families in the forces. To absent friends.’

  ‘To absent friends,’ we all repeat.

  Everyone knows someone who is missing. Maybe prisoner, maybe killed. But then we smile, all of us, like in a play.

  The fire is not quite enough to keep out the cold, which gnaws at my face and hands. Still I am smiling. Oakes, wearing blue overalls and a steel helmet, goes off to his night shift at the cathedral. Because of what happened in Coventry, people are volunteering to spend one night each week in St Paul’s, equipped with water and sandbags. I am almost sad to see him go. If I was wrong about him, could I be wrong about Timothy Squire, too?

  I am ready for bed, my stomach heavy and full, and I feel almost ready to laugh.
r />   The little book of poems of course I no longer have. Father gave it to me for Christmas, when I was five. I don’t remember that day – any more than I remember Father. Closing my old diary, I open the new one given to me by Timothy Squire, and briskly smooth the page. Without thinking, I begin to write:

  I wandered lonely as a cloud

  That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

  When all at once i saw a crowd,

  A host, of golden daffodils;

  Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

  There is more, but I can’t think of it now. It is far too cold to believe in daffodils. With a little shock, I realize I am crying.

  Maybe the siren will sound. When I peek through the curtain, up at the night sky, the stars are out again. Some bright, others dim, all scattered across the darkness. We are like that. Flo. Mabel. Mum. Father. Scattered like the stars.

  Friday, 27 December 1940

  Snow falls softly at mid-afternoon. It is a light snow and none of it has settled since Christmas. No footprints.

  ‘All right, Anna?’ says Timothy Squire uncertainly.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ I say, walking on.

  ‘Anna.’

  Timothy Squire has caught up to me. ‘Anna, I was just wondering... if, you know, you’d be up for a game? In the study, I mean.’

  For a moment, under the drifting snow, I stand motionless. I shrug.

  He laughs. ‘I wasn’t sure. You seemed so mad at me.’

  ‘“Mad”?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He turns red. ‘I mean, I know looting is wrong, but... you got so mad.’

  ‘You don’t understand anything.’

  We are silent. I shiver, frowning into the distance. The wind has shifted.

  ‘So,’ he says after a moment, ‘do you want to play?’

  Again I shrug.

  Over a shared Thermos of tea, Timothy Squire and I play Monopoly. He rubs his hair, makes lots of ‘ooohs’ and ‘ahhhs’, and says he got sent to gaol when I can see the card says Second place in a beauty contest.

  He is lucky not to be in a real gaol.